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For life! for life! their plight they ply-
And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry,
And plaids and bonnets waving high,
And broadswords flashing to the sky,
Are maddening in the rear.
Onward they drive, in dreadful race,

Pursuers and pursued;
Before that tide of flight and chase,
How shall it keep its rooted place,

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The spearmen's twilight wood?—
'Down, down,' cried Mar, 'your lances down!
Bear back both friend and foe!'-
Like reeds before the tempest's frown,
That serried grove of lances brown
At once lay levelled low;
And closely shouldering side to side,
The bristling ranks the onset bide.—
'We'll quell the savage mountaineer,

As their Tinchel11 cows the game!
They come as fleet as forest deer,

We'll drive them back as tame.

"Bearing before them, in their course,
The relics of the archer force,
Like wave with crest of sparkling foam,
Right onward did Clan-Alpine come.

Above the tide, each broadsword bright
Was brandishing like beam of light,

Each targe was dark below;
And with the ocean's mighty swing,
When heaving to the tempest's wing,
They hurled them on the foe.

I heard the lance's shivering crash,
As when the whirlwind rends the ash;
I heard the broadsword's deadly clang,
As if an hundred anvils rang!
But Moray wheeled his rearward rank
Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank,-

'My banner-man, advance!

-

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Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear,

Vanished the mountain-sword.
As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep,
Receives her roaring linn,12

As the dark caverns of the deep
Suck the wild whirlpool in,

So did the deep and darksome pass
Devour the battle's mingled mass:
None linger now upon the plain,
Save those who ne'er shall fight again.

"Now westward rolls the battle's din,
That deep and doubling pass within.-
Minstrel, away! the work of fate
Is bearing on: its issue wait,
Where the rude Trosachs' dread defile
Opens on Katrine's lake and isle.-
Gray Benvenue I soon repassed,

Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast.
The sun is set;-the clouds are met,
The lowering scowl of heaven
An inky hue of livid blue

To the deep lake has given;

Strange gusts of wind from mountain glen
Swept o'er the lake, then sunk agen.

I heeded not the eddying surge,
Mine eye but saw the Trosachs' gorge,
Mine ear but heard the sullen sound,
Which like an earthquake shook the ground,
And spoke the stern and desperate strife
That parts not but with parting life,
460 Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll
The dirge of many a passing soul.
Nearer it comes-the dim-wood glen
The martial flood disgorged agen,
But not in mingled tide;

I see,' he cried, 'their column shake.
Now, gallants! for your ladies' sake,
Upon them with the lance!'-
The horsemen dashed among the rout,
As deer break through the broom;
Their steeds are stout, their swords are out,
They soon make lightsome room.
Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne-
Where, where was Roderick then!
One blast upon his bugle-horn
Were worth a thousand men.
And refluent through the pass of fear
The battle's tide was poured;

11 A circle of hunters surrounding game.

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The plaided warriors of the North
High on the mountain thunder forth
And overhang its side;
While by the lake below appears
The dark'ning cloud of Saxon spears.
At weary bay each shattered band,
Eying their foemen, sternly stand;
Their banners stream like tattered sail,
That flings its fragments to the gale,
And broken arms and disarray
Marked the fell havoc of the day.

"Viewing the mountain's ridge askance,
The Saxon stood in sullen trance,
Till Moray pointed with his lance,

And cried-'Behold yon isle!—
See! none are left to guard its strand,
But women weak, that wring the hand:
'Tis there of yore the robber band
Their booty wont to pile;-

12 waterfall

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My purse, with bonnet-pieces store,13
To him will14 swim a bow-shot o'er,
And loose a shallop from the shore.
Lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then,
Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.'-
Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung,
On earth his casque and corslet rung,
He plunged him in the wave:—
All saw the deed-the purpose knew,
And to their clamours Benvenue

A mingled echo gave;

The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer,
The helpless females scream for fear,
And yells for rage the mountaineer.
'Twas then, as by the outcry riven,
Poured down at once the lowering heaven;
A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast,
Her billows reared their snowy crest.
Well for the swimmer swelled they high,
To mar the Highland marksman's eye;
For round him showered, 'mid rain and hail,
The vengeful arrows of the Gael.15-

In vain. He nears the isle-and lo!
His hand is on a shallop's bow.
Just then a flash of lightning came,

It tinged the waves and strand with flame;

I marked Duncraggan's widowed dame,16
Behind an oak I saw her stand,

A naked dirk gleamed in her hand :-
It darkened, but amid the moan
Of waves, I heard a dying groan;—
Another flash!-the spearman floats
A weltering corse beside the boats,
And the stern matron o'er him stood,
Her hand and dagger streaming blood.

"Revenge! revenge!' the Saxons cried,
The Gaels' exulting shout replied.
Despite the elemental rage,
Again they hurried to engage;
But, ere they closed in desperate fight,
Bloody with spurring came a knight,
Sprung from his horse, and from a crag,
Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag.
Clarion and trumpet by his side
Rung forth a truce-note high and wide,
While, in the Monarch's name, afar
A herald's voice forbade the war,
For Bothwell's lord,17 and Roderick bold,
Were both, he said, in captive hold.”—

But here the lay made sudden stand,
The harp escaped the Minstrel's hand!

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His face grows sharp,-his hands are clenched,
As if some pang his heart-strings wrenched;
Set are his teeth, his fading eye

550 Is sternly fixed on vacancy;

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Thus, motionless and moanless, drew

His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu!-
Old Allan-bane looked on aghast,
While grim and still his spirit passed;
But when he saw that life was fled,
He poured his wailing o'er the dead.

JOCK OF HAZELDEAN
"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sall be his bride:

And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen

But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

"Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale;
Young Frank is chief of Errington
And lord of Langley-dale;

His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle keen'-
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

"A chain of gold ye sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair;

580 Nor mettled hound, nor managed1 hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
And you, the foremost o' them a',
Shall ride our forest queen.

But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

The kirk was decked at morning-tide,
The tapers glimmered fair;

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight are there.

13 gold coins (stamped with the king's head) in They sought her baith by bower and ha';

plenty.

14 who will

15 Highlander

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The ladie was not seen!

She's o'er the Border and awa'

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

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PROUD MAISIE

FROM THE HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN

Proud Maisie is in the wood,

Walking so early;
Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
Singing so rarely.

،، Tell me, thou bonny bird,
When shall I marry me?''
"When six braw2 gentlemen
Kirkward shall carry ye.'

،، Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly?''
"The gray-headed sexton

That delves the grave duly.

"The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing 'Welcome, proud lady.'''

COUNTY GUY

FROM QUENTIN DURWARD

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea,

The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.

The lark his lay who thrilled all day
Sits hushed his partner nigh:
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?

The village maid steals through the shade
Her shepherd's suit to hear;

To beauty shy by lattice high,

Sings high-born Cavalier.

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These cowls of Kilmarnock 12 had spits and had spears,

And lang-hafted gullies18 to kill Cavaliers; But they shrunk to close-heads14 and the cause

way was free,

At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 24 Come fill up my cup, etc.

To the Lords of Convention 't was Claver 'se He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle

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rock,15

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Come fill up my cup, etc.

He waved his proud hand and the trumpets were blown,

'Tis to him we love most, And to all who love him. Brave gallants, stand up,

And avaunt ye, base carles! Were there death in the cup,

Here's a health to King Charles.

Though he wanders through dangers,
Unaided, unknown,

Dependent on strangers,
Estranged from his own;
Though 't is under our breath,
Amidst forfeits and perils,
Here's to honour and faith,
And a health to King Charles!

Let such honours abound
As the time can afford,
The knee on the ground,

And the hand on the sword;
But the time shall come round
When, 'mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls,
The loud trumpet shall sound,
Here's a health to King Charles.

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And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale; The kettle-drums clashed and the horsemen rode E'en then the boldest start from public sneers,

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Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
And shrink from Ridicule, though not from
Law.

To me the arrows of satiric song;
Such is the force of Wit! but not belong
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.
Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, 40

*This satire is in part a retort which Byron was stung into making by the ridicule with which the Edinburgh Review in January, 1808, received his youthful volume of verses, Hours of Idleness; though he had before planned a satirical poem upon contemporary English poets. In later years he regretted his severity, and especially his treatment of Francis Jeffrey, the editor of the journal, whom he had wrongly suspected of writing the offending article. See Eng. Lit., p. 246.

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'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;
A Book's a Book, altho' there's nothing in't.
Not that a Title's sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
This Lamb1 must own, since his patrician name
Failed to preserve the spurious farce from
shame.

No matter, George continues still to write,
Tho' now the name is veiled from public sight.
Moved by the great example, I pursue
The self-same road, but make my own review:
Not seek great Jeffrey 's, yet like him will be
Self-constituted Judge of Poesy.

A man must serve his time to every trade Save Censure-Critics all are ready made.

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Take hackneyed jokes from Miller,2 got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A mind well skilled to find, or forge a fault;
A turn for punning-call it Attic salt;3
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet,
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit;
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling-pass your proper jest,
And stand a Critic, hated yet caressed.

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While such are Critics, why should I forbear?

Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew,

For notice eager, pass in long review:
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace,

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And Rhyme and Blank maintain an equal race;
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode;
And Tales of Terror5 jostle on the road;
Immeasurable measures move along;*
For simpering Folly loves a varied song,
To strange, mysterious Dulness still the friend
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend.
Thus Lays of Minstrels-may they be the
last!-

On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast,

While mountain spirits prate to river sprites,
That dames may listen to the sound at nights;
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood,6
Decoy young Border-nobles through the wood,
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high,
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows
why;

While high-born ladies in their magic cell,
Forbidding Knights to read who cannot speil,
Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave,
And fight with honest men to shield a knave.

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On public taste to foist thy stale romance,
Though Murray with his Miller may combine
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line?
No! when the sons of song descend to trade,
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade;
Let such forego the poet's sacred name,
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame:
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain!
And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain!
Such be their meed, such still the just reward
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son,8
Of prostituted Muse and hireling bard!
And bid a long "good night to Marmion.’’

5 By "Monk" Lewis (Eng. Lit., 204).

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6 Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel (1805) grew out of a suggestion for a ballad derived from an absurd old Border legend of Gilpin Horner. 7 Publishers.

8 i. e., this bought Orpheus (Scott)

9 Marmion, line 869.

This is a sneer at the new anapestic metres. See Eng. Lit., p. 243.

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